God does indeed love the hash. Except for when he doesn't and decides to piss all over trail. Like the last time Sperm Bank ran a trail from the Side Door Cafe. Hash #468 back in Hashtobeer of 2014. The big question, however was - would Sperm Bank "cash" in his good credit with the Hash gods and somehow redeem himself for that soggy shit show?

It was 12:50PM when Piggy and Decibelle decided to show up for this trail. We sat down and ordered our first round of frosty brews from the suitably well endowed blonde barmaid. We sat there not looking at her mostly uncovered tits, while the cast of single men arrayed around the bar tried to not look at DeciBelle's tits and then back at the barmaids tits, with everyone basically failing miserably. From the way their heads (Who Said Head) were tracking back and forth, I felt like I was watching a tennis game. We were there for a good fifteen minutes before the next hasher darkened the door. It was Dirtbag. Not having tits, the men in the bar ignored him. Sadly for Dirtbag, so did the barmaid, until he made a scene and started jumping up and down so she could see the top of his head over the bar.

Slowly, the rest of the pack wandered in, and the hare even made an appearance somewhere around 1:30PM. He was soaking wet and out of breath, and insisted that the 4 extra miles he slogged were for his amusement alone, and that he didn't pre-lay a bit of trail, but instead decided to explore a nearby swamp, merely because he wanted to befriend an alligator.

Eventually we made Sperm Bank leave, but not before he pried Dirtbag away from staring at those wonderfully curvy barely contained in a black shirt melons, and took him outside to study the chalk talk. Noting the brief time between that this education occurred and when the pack was exposed to it turned out to be relevant on this day, but we'll get to that in a bit. As hashers drank their beers and watched Just Andrew frantically text "You Up Girl?" to what seemed to be every female in the capital district as he lined up his evening dance card, and we collectively tried not to stare as the breasts fetched beer bottles from coolers and washed glasses and made change, Sperm Bank returned to the bar not once, but 3 times to get something he forgot. Like his chalk. And his flour. And maybe a trip to the ATM. And to remind Dirtbag what the marks meant.

Since it was almost 2pm, and we hadn't seen Sperm Bank in a few minutes, Piggy decided we should get chalk talk done with and whistled for the pack to move it the fuck out of the bar into public. Now, you may harken back to the very first paragraph where we so uncannily identified the Hashtobeer run that Sperm Bank over drafted on his hash goodwill, leaving him in such a state of arrears. How did we manage to do that? Well, despite the ultra harsh winter we recently experienced the chalk talk from run #468 was still laid as pretty as can be on the concrete patio of the Side Door Cafe. Apparently, they never clean. Sperm Bank merely traced the marks, which I guess is good for us. Unfortunately, this didn't stop him from making up new things to write in the middle of checks. The hash was puzzled as to the meaning of several marks. Doubly unfortunate was the fact that Dirtbag... Remember Dirtbag? The guy that Sperm Bank had very recently explained the marks to? Well, he kinda forgot what they meant too. So. No help. Well done there.

After releasing Random Acts of Dog from the car, and a brisk Father Birmingham, we were off. Westward ho! We strung out along Western Avenue. Directly into the wind, which seemed to pick up strength as we hurled our bodies into an unyielding pressure gradient and continued along the unsafe mud rut on the south side of the road. We felt as if we we were running in slow motion, or at least - back in time to the previously run trail. Everything looked familiar, but drier. One thing we quickly learned was that every check point looked as if Sperm Bank had deposited his full load of checks all at once. There were circles and letters everywhere at every intersection. A massive withdrawal, so to speak. Was he spending all his cash on chalk? Perhaps he would learn to balance his checks. Another thing we quickly learned was that every false was a long false. This might have wreaked a bit of havoc on the many walkers, as the FRB's would be well out of sight by the time they got to any check, but because at least one of the 4 circles at every check point was a song check, we sang and waited for the walkers as long as we could.

Luckily for us, after only 2 or 3 miles of running directly into the wind, we finally turned north towards lands known to hold the promise of trails, possibly some shiggy, and the hash got excited. We ran right by a nice little copse that Piggy had run us through many years past. We ran right by a side trail that would lead us to the Pine Bush Preserve. We ran right by a little old man in a Cadillac that tried to pick Dirtbag up (apparently he mistook the amount of crap Willy Wanker was carrying for roadside trash and congratulated us on doing our part to clean up the area. Turns out, Willy was really picking up garbage, but it matched the Hashit wonderfully.) We ran right by a power line trail that we knew could take us to 6 Mile Park. We kept running on the hard city roads as we slowly started turning north by east... directly towards.. the mall. Oh joy - not. Our spirits fell. Piggy, desperate for shiggy at this point, did the only thing he could do - he took his life in his hands and ran through the Macy's perfume department.

Indeed, we were therefore malled at World of Beer. 6.9 and SeizeHer had something better to do, so they trail bailed at this point. We were reunited with Sperm Bank at the bar, where he insisted he'd run at least 6 miles and hadn't pre-laid anything. We only heard the words "beer on me" and ordered up some tasty frosty beverages without regard to alcohol content, our only focus being that of our B.A.C. A word of caution, if you happen to visit World Of Beer and stray from the "bar area" into the "restaurant area" you will be brusquely dealt with, especially if you are leaning against a chair you didn't pay for. Apparently, it doesn't help your case if you look kinda like Ray Liotta. There is a very obvious invisible line there, mister.

We sent Sperm Bank away, and drank up and got the heck out of the mall, blinking like (mall)rats in the sunshine. Some runners joined the walkers contingent. Apparently, there was some secret intelligence shared at the beer check that they were in on, as walkers all showed up at the end of trail by car. Magic, huh? The runners got to dodge multi-tonne vehicles piloted by cell phone abusing credit card wielding Clifton Park soccer moms while crossing 8 lanes of traffic. We encountered another Eagle/Turkey split, and brought this hash in for a landing at Sperm Bank's "Divorcee Palace." Everyone, that is, except Dirtbag. He was apparently trying to pick up another random guy in a truck at a gas station. He made it in after presumably scoring some hot digits, making him the DAL on the day.

Tap Dat Ass and F3 had scored New Orleans Dark Chocolate Heavenly Hash candy courtesy of Tap's Mom and they brought it to share with the group. While we devoured every last piece of this confectionery delight, the hare again reminded us that he hadn't prelaid a bit of trail, and had run about 9 miles, all live, while nursing a baby eagle at his bosom.

Eventually, the hash put on shoes, or didn't put on shoes and we went outside to circle on Sperm Breath's fellatio patio.

Behind the apartment where Sperm Bank coaxes his nightly withdrawals of seminal fluid, lays a small lake, apparently created to attract large grouchy birds who like to shit everywhere. It also attracts stupid dogs who chase balls thrown into the water, which is exactly where Just Andrew threw them. The hash was surrounded by the smells of cheap beer, wet dog, goose shit, and the smell of panic emanating from Sperm Bank as he realized that the almost constant public urination, loud singing, and a myriad of tenant agreement violations would mean immediate eviction, and then how would he be able to clean all that spooge off the walls and pack up all his empty beer bottles? Anyone else think it's odd that an empty beer bottle can count as 'art?' I suppose if you frame it and put a light on it or something.

Circle was the usual affair. The hare drank, of course, and we learned our lesson of kiddingly calling Eagle/Turkey spilt "Tough/Easy" in chalk talks - as long time hasher Sperm Bank honestly thought that was what they really meant. Seriously. Perhaps it is just that he is easily befuddled as these endless days of glazing the furniture, the walls, and the empty beer bottles seem to run into each other. Thus, on this trail, all the FRB's who ran Eagle trail actually ran the Easy trail.

Since he ran the Tough trail (instead of Turkey), F3 was the FRB, and Random Acts of Dog was the FBI. Willy drank for picking up trash on trail (and adding most of it to the Hashit). Dirtbag drank for trying to pick up men on trail. DeciBelle, Tap and Edgewhiner drank for Auto hashing to the end. Just Andrew won the Hashit for a litany of reasons technology in circle, pissing during circle (and maintaining eye contact throughout the operation), getting the dog wet. Kilted hashers drank. Hashalversaries. There's no way I can remember this stuff. It's been almost a week.

I notice that our ascribed scribe has conveniently amscrayed on the last few trails, despite promises to the contrary. You get what you get.